Trembling with excitement, which oppressed her to faintness, she turned the latch, and stole into the chamber, but only to pause a step from the door, dumb and cold, as if, then and there, turned into stone.
Another person was in the room, standing close by the bed, with the glow of its silken curtains falling over the soft whiteness of her dress, and the rich masses of her golden hair. It was Lady Rose.
A moment this fair vision stood gazing upon the inmate of the bed, then her face drooped downward, and seemed to rest upon the pillow, where another head lay. The night-lamp was dim, but Ruth could see this, and also that the lady sunk slowly to her knees, and rested her cheek against a hand, around which her fingers were enwoven.
Not a word did that young wife utter. Not a breath did she draw, but, turning swiftly, fled.
CHAPTER XXIX.
BY MY MOTHER IN HEAVEN.
RUTH JESSUP stood by her father's bed, white as a ghost, and cold as a stone. Her step, usually so light, had fallen heavily on the floor as she entered the room—so heavily that the sick man started in his bed, afraid of some unwelcome intrusion. The room was darkened, and he did not see how pale his child was, even when she stood close to him.
"Did you see him? Did you tell him to keep a close lip? Does he know that I would be hacked to pieces rather than harm him? Why don't you speak, Ruth?"
"I saw him, father; but that was all," answered the girl, in a voice that sounded unnatural to him.